


Make it a Triple

by daylight_angel



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Episode Related, Multi, S3 E9 "Alcoholics Unanimous", Snowballing, Threesome - F/M/M, but it's in passing so I didn't tag it, mention of Frank Burns/Margaret Houlihan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 22:32:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17517056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daylight_angel/pseuds/daylight_angel
Summary: McIntyre has warm hazel eyes she could get lost in, and Pierce has an infectious laugh she secretly loves. They're idiots, but five years ago she was exactly like them. Deep down she is still like them, underneath the worry and pressure of her rank, of being a woman in a war zone. She's been twisting herself into the perfect shape for her career for too long to let up, too long to know how, but sometimes she can untwist around them, doesn't have to be Army approved, perfect and straight laced.What exactly happens after Frank leaves the Swamp in "Alcoholics Unanimous?





	1. Chapter 1

Frank storms out in a huff, his ferrety face twisted with displeasure, but Margaret’s too pleasantly buzzed for it to hurt.

“Who was that?” she slurs, just to see Hawkeye and Trapper laugh. When she's like this, warm and floaty in a haze of alcohol, they're bearable, even friendly. She can't deny to herself that she does genuinely like them, perverted draftees though they might be. McIntyre has warm hazel eyes she could get lost in, and Pierce has an infectious laugh she secretly loves. They're idiots, but five years ago she was exactly like them. Deep down she is still like them, underneath the worry and pressure of her rank, of being a woman in a warzone. She's been twisting herself into the perfect shape for her career for too long to let up, too long to know how, but sometimes she can untwist around them, doesn't have to be Army approved, perfect and straight laced.

“-rattle around in your bones,” McIntyre sings just under his breath, cracking up.

Not too much later, her head hanging off the edge of Pierce's cot, she realizes that everything is starting to get fuzzy around the edges, a sure sign that she's at a level of intoxication where she starts to make very bad decisions, usually ones she wishes she didn't remember in the morning.

“Booze is almost gone,” Hawkeye observes, staring sadly at the bottle.

Margaret lazily leans up on her elbows as Trapper hurriedly slumps so far forward in his seat that he nearly bumps heads with Pierce.

“Hey there sailor,” he quips, catching McIntyre by the shoulder.

Judging by the moon eyes he’s making, Pierce has quite forgotten she’s here. She knows, of  _course_ she knows, practically anyone with eyes, (which thankfully excludes Frank), knows Pierce has it bad for McIntyre, and she really can’t blame him. The man is built, handsome as a movie star. Almost everyone in camp so inclined wants to jump him, herself included. If it wasn’t for his damn attitude, the skirt chasing and the disrespect, she’d have done so a long time ago.

She stays quiet, not wanting to spook either man, distantly worried that McIntyre might finally wise up and knock out Hawkeye's teeth.

Instead, Trapper whines, “Hawkeye,” and catches his lips in a kiss, heated and practiced. Margaret can't hold back a surprised gasp that makes the men break apart in a panic.

“Margaret,” Trapper says, frozen, his eyes wide and frantic.

“Look,” Hawkeye starts, and she props herself a bit farther up on her elbows.

“I have to admit,” she interrupts, smile on her face, “it’s never started quite like this in my fantasies.”

“Fantasies?” Hawkeye asks, a calming hand on Trapper's knee.

She sits up, the world spinning for a moment, and hooks her thumb at Trapper, who still looks confused and a little terrified. “Well, I could really go for him, and you,” she waves a slightly dismissive hand at Hawkeye. “you're not bad. The two of you with me h-has crossed my mind once or twice, but the two of you  _together_...”

Margaret is just drunk enough to admit the sight excites her, makes her want to look and taste and touch. She swallows the last dregs of her drink, aware of both men's eyes on her, and all but falls forward into McIntyre's lap.

“Margaret?” He drawls, panic subsisting in the face of surprise, a charming smirk twisting his lips.  

“Usually,” she continues, getting comfortable, “I think about walking in on one of you and a nurse and being invited to join in.” She steals a sip of Trapper's drink, lolling her head back to look at Pierce.

“Oh. Oh!” Hawkeye says, a lecherous grin forming as what she's saying finally clicks in his alcohol soaked brain.

“Can I have this dance?” she asks, not waiting for permission before pressing her mouth against McIntyre’s, pulling him down by his shirt collar. She's straddling him, the kiss sloppy and thrilling and threatening her oxygen intake when Pierce taps her shoulder. His eyes glint with mischief, and he's oddly silent as he tips her head back to kiss her. His lips taste like brandy, and when she opens her mouth to him alcohol pours in, the burn of it only matched by the intensity of his kiss. When Pierce breaks the kiss, Margaret swallows the brandy down, head tipped back to expose the long column of her throat.

“You saucy little  _fuck_ ," McIntyre groans, eyes on Hawkeye.

“Last call,” Pierce says, taking the last sip and leaning down to kiss Trapper. It's filthy, obscenely erotic, one of Hawkeye’s hand on her back, the other cupping Trap's jaw. She can feel how hard he is underneath her, relishes in the way his hands tighten on her thighs, the little moans he makes into Hawkeye's mouth. She pulls off her shirt and scrambles for Trapper's belt, desperate for skin to skin contact, desperate to get her hands on the hard hot length of him. He doesn't disappoint, his cock long and thick and already dripping clear fluid, and she slips down to the floor to get her mouth on it. She's drunk,  _gloriously_ drunk, just enough that she doesn't stop to consider what a truly terrible idea this is, just lets go and lives in the moment.

Trapper tangles his fingers in her hair.

“Fuck, Hawk, she’s almost as good at this as you,” he moans.

_Wouldn't that be a pretty sight,_ she thinks,  _Pierce on his knees with his lips stretched deliciously around McIntyre’s cock._ Hawkeye hooks his chin around Trapper’s shoulder and looks down at her, enjoying the show. She cocks an eyebrow at him and pulls back, licks her lips.

“I'd like to see that,” she says, and Pierce's eyes go wide, pupils blown, shock and arousal warring on his face.

“Houlihan, you are full of surprises,” he slurs, dropping to his knees besides her. She rests her head against the chair and looks her fill. She's not surprised to see that Pierce clearly  _loves_ this, erection tenting his pants and face flushed from more than alcohol. McIntyre cants his hips up, a low whine in his throat, and Margaret fists a hand into Hawkeye's hair,  _pulls_ , the action making him moan around his mouthful of cock. She looks up at Trapper, smiles in a way she's never smiled at him before.

Margaret knows very well the effect that smile, all dominant heat, has on her partners.

“He likes pain, I take it,” she purrs, guiding Pierce’s head up and down. “What do you like?”

Trapper growls, pulls her close to kiss and bite at her neck and this is what she wanted, a  _fight_ , a battle of sexual wills that she could never get out of any of the other men in this camp. Pierce is good, and they're perfectly in tune sexually, call and response, but Trapper is a sexual confrontation, brawler against brawler, a sparring match she hopes will end in a draw, both of them sated and bruised.

She kisses him hard, all teeth, bites back.

She's half perched on his thigh, pulled against his chest, trying not to knock Hawkeye with her knees, hand still on his head, and it's ungainly, undignified, so she tugs Hawkeye to his feet, both of them falling back in a heap onto McIntyre’s cot. Trapper follows, caught in their gravitational pull, swooping down to kiss first Hawkeye and then her, one leg between her thighs. She turns her head to look at Hawkeye watching them as Trapper undresses her.

“Hey,” she says, the moment shockingly tender, and pulls him into a kiss as McIntyre finally gets his hands between her thighs. She swears and arches up into the contact, two of his fingers tracing circles around her clit.

“Language,” Hawkeye teases, lazily tugging at his cock as he watches.

“Brat,” Margaret spits back, clutching at the edge of the cot.

“Trap, you got a condom?”

_Fuck_ but Margaret wants that, Trapper filling her up, wants it so bad she almost doesn't notice Hawkeye taking over, the soft jingle of Mcintyre's belt, a drawer opening.

Hawkeye snaps in front of her face, smiles knowingly.

“Might wanna brace yourself darlin',” Trapper says, rubbing the head of his cock over her sex, a slow and merciless tease of what's to come.

“He's kind of a lot at first,” Pierce says.

“How would you- _oh,”_ she says, and the image of the two of them  _like that_ burns itself into her brain, a delicious, torrid fantasy she never wants to forget, sends heat searing through her.

She grabs Hawkeye by the shirt as McIntyre eases in, digs her nails just a little into his skin.

“ _Fuck,_ ” she cries, “Fuck, oh god, McIntyre,” Hawkeye starts laughing besides her, “Shut  _up,_ Pierce, oh my god.” She kisses him to shut him up, the cot creaking dangerously below the three of them with every rock of Trapper's hips.

It's good,  _glorious,_ Hawkeye's fingers exerting just the right amount of pressure on her clit, Trapper's cock firm and warm inside her, the two of them working perfectly in tandem to take her apart, as efficient in bed as they are in surgery. When she comes, her vision going white, unable to keep from crying out or grasping at whatever she can reach, it's to the sight of Hawkeye and Trapper kissing just inches from her face.

McIntyre fucks her through the orgasm until Hawkeye tugs at him.

“Your turn,” he says, and pulls the condom off Trapper with his teeth, engulfing him in the warm wet heat of his mouth. Trapper groans, yanking Pierce closer, and it isn't long before he surrenders. Pierce doesn't move until Trapper draws back, a bit of white smearing his lips.

Margaret isn't sure what spurs her forward, just that she's suddenly kissing him, and his mouth is still full, slipping from his tongue to hers like the brandy did. It's clearly doing something for him, his cock twitching against her thigh, so she gently pulls back, smiles at him closed lipped and kisses him again, mirroring his earlier action. When she breaks the kiss he swallows, then opens his mouth wide, the flat spread of his tongue pink and clean.

“ _Filthy_ ,” Margaret and Trapper say in unison, Trapper's voice a dangerous and choked growl. He pushes Hawkeye flat against the cot and climbs in, one broad hand pinning his wrists down above his head.  

“Look at you, ya’ harlot,” he says, wrapping his other hand around Pierce's cock, thumbing just under the head, “gettin’ off on something like that, filthy slut.” He sucks a bruise into the soft skin under Pierce's jaw, wringing a gasp out of him. Margaret, watching from Pierce's cot, slips a hand between her thighs, chasing her second orgasm.

She's captivated by the way Hawkeye writhes underneath McIntyre, the helpless moans, the carnal pitch of Trapper's voice, low and slow and salacious.

“fuck, Trap,  _please,"_ Pierce keens, bucking into Trapper's fist, desperate, overstimulated and red faced.

“Ask Margaret,” Trapper says.

“What?” Hawkeye pants, “Trap, c'mon.”

“Ask. Margaret.” he repeats, his pace on Hawkeye's cock tortuously slow. He winks playfully at at her and her breathing speeds up.

“Uh,” she clears her throat. “Pierce?”

Hawkeye turns to her wild eyed, unable to stop the little movements of his hips.

“Margaret,” he pants, “Margaret please,  _please,_ Trap, Margaret,  _fuck,_ please,”

Margaret nods at McIntyre, who twists his wrist around Hawkeye’s cock, faster and faster.

“Fuck, fuck,  _fuck-”_ Pierce arches his back, legs shaking, hand clamped over his mouth as he spills over Trapper's capable hands.

When Trapper lifts his hand to Hawkeye's mouth for Pierce to greedily clean his fingers, Margaret’s orgasm crashes over her unexpectedly, a sudden rush of blinding pleasure. She drops back on the cot, exhausted, the drink and the sex catching up to her all at once.

She falls asleep to the sound of Pierce and McIntyre’s soft moans, still kissing on the cot next to her.


	2. Chapter 2

Margaret wakes up early in the morning, slumped in Pierce’s otherwise empty cot, confused, with a headache the size of Toledo. Frank’s bed isn't slept in and she breathes out a sigh of relief, thankful that whatever had happened last night, he hadn’t seen. She gets up, groaning, and looks over to McIntyre’s side of the Swamp.

Pierce has his face buried in Trapper’s neck, one bare leg slung over his, and McIntyre’s hand is still caught in the waistband of Hawkeye’s skivvies. Both of them are covered in hickeys and the occasional smear of lipstick, her color.

Snippets of the night before run through her head, the men kissing her, kissing each other, brandy and bare skin and the creak of a cot not meant to hold three bodies.

_Fuck._

Judging by the light it’s only a few minutes before reveille, so she kicks the frame of the cot hard, Trapper shooting up with a shout. His eyes go wide when he sees her, glances down at Hawkeye and rolls out from under him, panicked.

“You-you  _idiots_ ,” Margaret hisses, gathering up her things, worried about Frank walking in at any second. Hawkeye cracks an eyelid, always the layabout, and reaches out for McIntyre on the floor, who shies away.

“Trap?” he says, sleepy and confused.

Margaret kicks the cot again, frantically wishing Pierce would get his ass in gear.

“Margaret!” he yelps, pulling the blanket up around him, both of them looking at her fearfully. She wants to reassure them that it’s fine, that while she may not like them sober and in the light of day they’re damn good surgeons and she wouldn’t jeopardize that, but she doesn’t have  _time,_ she never has the  _damn_ _time_ to be kind.

“Get dressed,  _fast,_ ” she snaps, and rushes out of the tent.

Frank's none the wiser, and Margaret doesn't ask where he spent the night. (Judging by the pristine state of her tent when she went in there to change, it was somewhere or with someone else). Pierce and McIntyre are on edge and rude all day, snapping mostly and worstly at each other.

Pierce corners her in the washroom when everyone else is still in surgery, unsubtle and  _idiotic_ , but likely the best chance of privacy they'll get all day.

“Look, Major,” he starts, whisper shouting, “I don't know what, I mean, I don't know what you think you _saw_ ,”

“Oh for  _Christ's_ sake, Pierce,” she's really too tired and hungover for this, “I don't care, I really  _don't_ , just keep me out of it from now on.”

Pierce looks at her like she's grown a second head. “What?”

“You heard me,” she says, glancing behind her as Baker walks through. “Keep me out of it.” She walks away, wishing she could forget the last night.

Wishing she actually wanted to.

**Author's Note:**

> If anybody wants me to tag for any of the stuff in this please let me know  
> thanks again to the folks at the Swamp


End file.
